


We Heal As One

by LadyRhin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alpha Ignis, Alpha Noctis, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Animal Instincts, Ardyn being a shithead, Beta Gladio, College, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mates, Pack Bonding, Pack Dynamics, Reincarnation, Spirit Animal Guides, Werewolf Hunters, Werewolves, body aches fever nausea, but like barely, but you knew that already, heats are basically a week-long flu, kinda tooth rotting, medication as a cover-up, no beta we die like men, omega Prompto, pack ranks are there but not as intense as omegaverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-01-10 23:43:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12310374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRhin/pseuds/LadyRhin
Summary: Wolves have long since disappeared from Eos since the hunts for the magic that resided in their souls wiped out the remaining packs. A goddess unhappy with the outcome grants a power to the last of their kind. One that introduces a new way of life for them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I knew it wouldn't be long before I had to dip my feet in the world of the wolf au. This has been sitting in my head for months and between three creative writing classes this semester, I FINALLY have some time to get things started. 
> 
> This is marked gen because I honestly have no idea if I ant to make this into a ship au or what, but hey, we'll see. The archive warning isn't major either, at least I don't plan it to be. Characters and tags will be modified as I remember what I wanted to do with them :/
> 
> Also if anybody recognizes the title, that thing is so useful.

_Please not tonight._

He was back on the dimly lit street of Insomnia’s art district. Shop windows filled with paintings, statuettes and prehistoric equipment restored for collectors stared him down, waiting along with him for the inevitable. They were part of the act themselves, after all. No other people were ever there to share in his plight, only the people of acrylic and oil would bear witness.

Prompto had gotten accustomed to his subconscious transporting him to the abandoned center. While awake, people from all over the city gathered here to either stock up on supplies for their own creations or to buy some piece they thought would make their homes and businesses more welcoming. In the dream, it felt foreign. Even though he practically lived on this street, the air was tight around his chest, just a little too fake and lifeless. He was familiar with the process. The cricket had already chirped twice, so in about thirty seconds, glass would break on the camera shop windows. Next, he would be drawn to investigate the sound, his body no longer under his control, but the dream’s. the tall man in the ugly rags would step out from the shattered window, a bag clutched in his right hand and his left dripping blood.

He’d notice the blond standing nearby and smile his unsettling smile, “Oh hello there, little one. Care to spare a stranger some of your time?” Prompto wouldn’t answer him, instead backing away as the strange man approached him with long strides. He never knew where his goal was, just that more distance was ideal. But then his chest would clench, the breath forced out of his lungs when he would turn the corner that put his favorite park in view and the man would be there, tipping his gaudy hat to him. Prompto would be frozen there, his body once again disobeying him. 

“Don’t be like that, little one. I just wish to talk.” The man would reach out with his bloody hand towards Prompto’s face. He heart would no longer pound in exhaustion, but in dread. A fear that he felt down in the most primal parts of him. _RUN. RUN. RUN._  His very being screamed at him. But then the man’s body would jerk. He’d fall. His outstretched hand would clench in pain as his body fell to the ground, revealing the back of the main’s neck, ripped to shreds exposing muscle and torn veins to the night. He would be able to see the blood running down his back like a blocked river pushing through the cracks.

Then he would be able to see behind the man at what had taken him down. The eyes were what took his breath away. There shouldn’t have been a blue so absolutely clear that he could almost feel the sea ice beneath his fingertips. The two sets of eyes were looking into him, reading everything he was, even what he didn't know himself. Their fur was a white that no human could replicate, not even the painters that fought to sell their creations on the street. It seemed to glow, each strand imbued with its own light. Prompto had never seen a live wolf before, no one had, to be fair. Museum field trips with dummies positioned in some ancient vicious fight with each other were all the experience anyone had these days. The two standing over the man's dead body, completely free of the blood they drew, were as alive as he was in this world. The dream never showed him where they came from. Maybe he was always so focused on the man that he missed their arrival, or maybe he was just kidding himself and they simply appeared there. Dreams and explanations were never good friends. 

There was something deep inside him that spoke to him then, not quite a voice, some sense that told him that the two were siblings, brother and sister. The two were padding up to him now, disregarding the puddle of blood forming around the man's body. The female, how he knew didn't matter, came up closer and touched her cold wet nose to his right wrist, directly above where he knew the black lines normally were, but never in this dream. Her eyes met his once more and he began to feel the ground below him slipping away. The man's body was gone, the blood seemed to have evaporated before his eyes. The male left his place near the nonexistent puddle and came up to him, licking his left hand and nuzzling it to rest it on top of his long muzzle. The sky began to melt away, stars turned off like tiny lamps, the sky closed its eye. As he felt himself float away from himself, the two wolves stood side by side, and sang. Their song spoke of hunts lasting days on end only to return to the den empty handed. IT told him of a winter so bitterly cold, only a few stringy rabbits desperate for food were available. He learned of a cave so warm and safe that the small, new bodies within were able to grow strong. The song introduced him to family that welcomed the new lives with gentle licks and nudges. 

They sang their song to him and, as the dream dropped away, leaving him floating in the empty realm with only the white forms in sight, he sang back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, this chapter is based on a dream that I've really been having for the past ten years or so. It'll pop up about two or three times a year but the setting is a lot weirder then what I've written here. It's a city, yeah, but all the buildings are made of legos and sticks I swear. The guy actually has a lot of weird clothes and a hat too. Everything with the wolves are 100%, too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so late and short. I've got two creative writing classes going right now and they've both been heavy with the writing part of that. It's also come to my attention that I have no idea how to end a section so if the ending feels a little sudden and off, that's my mark as a writer I guess. Anyway, here's your obligatory backstory chapter and I promise next chapter is when things start kicking off.

Today was going to be better if Prompto had anything to say about it. His history professor was a man of little patience and it showed in his lectures. Any of the class that so much as asked him to slow down his lesson got a time-wasting speech on proper notetaking. This time, though, Prompto was ready. The blond was still having breakfast in his one-bedroom apartment. Plain gray walls had long ago been filled in with pinned up photos he’d taken himself and some of his safer sketches. The more ‘exotic’ ones stayed in his room, out of sight of the rare visitor. His small kitchen had the only real tiles in the entire place, a black backsplash against an otherwise pale peach wall.

Scooping up the last of the scrambled eggs on his plate, Prompto closed the notebook he’s been writing his own notes in. The plan consisted of going ahead in the current chapter and jotting down what he thought was important. That way, there wouldn’t be much for him to write during the lecture. He was sure to have hit some of the points in the two fill pages he’s filled.

Fighting back a yawn, Prompto washed his dirty dishes and set them to dry. Last night was rough. The dream had been part of his life for the past five years, popping up at least twice a month. Each night ended in him being unable to fall back to sleep. His heart pounded to the beat of the migraine that would form and his skin would begin to crawl until he was forced out of bed to do something. Walks around the neighborhood would usually help, settling his mind. He’d tried walking to the park a couple of nights, quickly learning that going near the area so soon after the dream would only intensify the discomfort. The day after his little nighttime stroll would be spent half awake, the restlessness catching up to him.

Drying off his hands with the stained yellow dishtowel, his fingers brushed over the wrist the female would always touch. The mark resting beneath the black leather band was always back when he woke up. Broken black lines forming what he made out to be a simplified tree. The mark had been there his whole life, as far as he could remember. The few times his parents had answered when he asked where it came from, he was left with only a vague story of how it was already there when they adopted him. They would always rant about how his birth parents must have been into witchcraft. The talks always ended in a reminder to keep it covered, unless he wanted people to ask questions he couldn’t answer. He'd never actually told them about the dream when it first started, only ever having to explain why he was walking around the neighborhood at three in the morning. The most his parents ever had to do with the dream was get him on pills to help with the migraines that followed them. 

Now ‘officially’ living on his own instead of managing his parent's house by himself most months out of the year, he’d been able to get into Insomnia University on multiple fine arts scholarships. He’s worked his ass off putting together portfolios in time for their deadlines and he wasn’t about to let some stuck-up professor ruin it for him. The first semester was still hazy to him. Juggling work, class, the post-dream sleeplessness and his migraines left him in a constant state of exhaustion and stress for the better part of a year.

Dishes cleaned, the blond grabbed his backpack from the faded navy couch and headed out for class. Friday was his calm day, only two classes that ended well before afternoon set in. That cleared him up for any early start on assignments and free time before work. His job at the camera shop on the art strip was more of an extension on his love for photography. Interactions with people coming into the shop gave him a chance to see into other people's lives and how much memories meant to them. Just last week, a woman came in with a box of film rolls that she found in a closet. The woman hadn't exactly known what the pictures were of when Prompto gave them back to her after being developed. Seeing her daughter, who she told him was moving away soon, she cried in the middle of the shop. A photo could hold so much power and that's what he loved. To be able to capture a moment that meant the world to someone. So he poured his heart into it. 

Cheap disposable cameras were his first real pieces of equipment as a kid. The community center also gave the occasional free class that he always took the time to attend back in high school. Once he learned about digital, he saved every gil he could to eventually buy his own. Monthly classes at the shop were open to people that didn't have access to the university's program he was currently pursing. Even now, he still took to listening in on some of the other photographers that came into the shop. Their methods were just as interesting as his own and he'd never pass up an opportunity to learn more. There was even a stack of model manuals in his closet from some of the damaged cameras that couldn't be sold. The drawing came about on its own. Passing the time during a droning teacher's lecture lead to the margins of his notebook being filled with doodles. He wasn't as intense about drawing as taking pictures, but he liked being able to transfer an image onto paper as a way of training how he saw a space. 

He wanted to invoke a strong emotion like that in people. He would feel like he was doing something worthwhile. Something he could be proud of and call his own. There wouldn't need to be any other person in his life he needed to impress or remind him he was doing well. He would be happy with his photos and how they made others happy. 

All he had to do was pass this history class and he'd be free to focus completely on his major. The bus stop in front of his complex has lost its covering long ago in a storm that swept through the city last Spring and had never been fixed, so Prompto was left standing in the September sun while he waited. Its walls still stood full of posters advertising concerts, night clubs and the occasional coded drug deal he learned to decipher after, experiences, in high school. The light gray button-up shirt was the only thing saving him from suffocating on the spot. Luckily he'd figured out that this bus in particular was always seven minutes late, so he knew better than leaving the apartment too early. 

'Three, two, one...' There it is. Prompto allowed himself a brief moment of celebration for his two week record of timing the bus just right. The silver and black bus pulled to a stop in front of him, its doors parting and welcoming him with a burst of air conditioning.

"Mornin' kid." 

"Morning, Miss Hytha. Did you get the message I left you?"

" I sure did! Thanks for cluing me in on it. I got in touch with a couple of their parents last night." She closed the bus doors as the blond took a seat directly behind her. "Turns out, some of them figured they were on something, just didn't think anybody else saw anything." Good. Maybe now they would get out of that hole before they dug themselves in too deep. The blond had noticed a few younger kids that rode the route almost as frequently as he did had been off lately. He didn't really know any of them, but he saw how they'd been quieter and a bit out of it, sometimes even missing their stops. 

He turned in his seat and scanned the rest of the bus. None of them were on today and he suspected they were kept home. Now that their families were involved, it was out of his hands. Today was already turning out better than he'd hoped. He was definitely going to be ahead in history, he hoped he'd managed to help some kids out (even if they'd likely be pissed at him), he had a shopping trip planned for some more charcoal sticks, and he didn't even have to take his medicine after the dream last night. It was going to be one of his good days, he could tell. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm soooo late on this. I've been so out of writing the past couple of months for no damn reason. I've had this written for literally 3 months and I was trying to get things written ahead of time so I'd just have to post, but I was kinda at a standstill. Been feeling uninterested in a lot of things lately...BUT, I'm back in school so I'll have no choice but to write so maybe this'll kick my ass into gear! 
> 
> Things actually happen in this chapter guys!! Kinda. More of a lead into stuff happening. Again.

Fuck everything.

Not only did his professor decide to be spontaneous and skip a few chapters in textbook, completely invalidating everything he'd worked on, but he also assigned a research paper on the political climate after the wall had been taken down. The old man must have had a sixth sense and just _knew_ Prompto was prepared, opting to flush all his hopes and dreams down the drain. The wall was common knowledge and even little kids knew what it did and that it wasn't used anymore, but how the hell was he, a kid with zero political experience, supposed to know how things were going inside the Citadel? Maybe he could just saddle up to King Regis, give him a hug and ask the big man himself, 'Yo what's up king-man, how's politics treatin' ya?' He bet he could even do it without getting tackled to the ground by a mob of angry Crownsguard.

Sure.

As if he would even get past the front gates. Citizens looking to visit had to wait through intensive background checks and as soon as they pulled up his place of birth, any application he sent would be shredded in an instant. He'd tried back in middle school for a class field trip. He'd even gotten to see his mom for long enough the day before for her so sign the permission slip. He just didn't expect to be given a note from his teacher the morning of the field trip sending him home for the day. 

Regardless, his classes were done for the day with some time to spare. He'd stopped by the campus library to find a starting point for the assignment. Sitting at one of the many bus stops littered across campus with a couple of books, all he'd managed to find was Nifleheim's initial response to the wall being raised, kicking and screaming like a child told they couldn't have candy for dinner. So, no help there. He was ultimately doomed to haunting the library all next week. 

His one saving grace today was the prospect of restocking on supplies for the rest of the month. As long as the store didn't disappear through a wormhole or something just as stupid, he'd be happy. With his streak of luck today though, they'd be out of the charcoal he usually bought. He doubted he'd even care at this point. Today needed to be over with soon and the bus turning the corner was a welcome sight.

 

 

The supply store itself was almost dead center of the block between a fabric place and his favorite bakery. It was a good thing the camera shop as further down the street, otherwise the blond would be driven insane by teases of the intoxicating smells during his shift. 

As he entered through the simple glass door decorated with art class schedules, new types of brushes in stock and sale signs of local pieces, the tenseness he'd been carrying in his shoulders all day melted off. The smell of paper, lead and acrylic paint spread through him and blew away the clouds building in his mind. The only other place that held this power over him was his own room and the camera shop. This was his place, where he knew what he was doing. There was no judge, no deadlines to meet and no one telling him to do better. It was just him and the material. 

The back wall was his destination, freestanding iron shelves stacked with wooden crates filled with pencils, charcoal sticks, calligraphy pens with no tips and child touched kneaded erasers bent out of shape. That wall used to support him a lot in the beginning. It probably wasn't the best idea to sit on a floor next to bundles of lead and charcoal, but reading the labels to compare pencils took a lot out of a new artist. Now though, he could make a beeline for a particular box and grab without looking. He always made a point to look, though, just in case Mrs. Tana chose that day to change the store on him. She wouldn't until her husband came back from his trip to Lestallum, but still. 

Huh. The box of his regular sticks was empty. Well how about that. He could probably walk into the back storage and grab some of those, but it would be met with that 'look' from the old woman that let him have the run of the place. The 'I know there's others out front you could buy, but I'll let it slide' look. He was enough under his budget that it wouldn't hurt his wallet to spend the few extra gil anyway. 

"Oh, hello dear! I was hoping you'd come in today." 

Mrs. Tana wasn't old. She swore she wasn't. The wrinkles around her eyes and mouth were just from laughing at her husband's failed attempts to fix their washing machine. Her white apron had been through its fair share of paint wars with the younger classes and it wore its battle scars proudly. The gray curls fitted underneath a green and black checkerboard scarf sometimes had splotches of paint decorating them as well. The shop owner was currently armed with a clipboard and pen, jogging out from the back storeroom. 

"Sorry I kinda disappeared. School's been kicking me in places I forgot existed." 

"That's quite alright dear! I remember being so busy that I sometimes forgot to eat. Goodness, my mother didn't like that at all when she found out." She paused, running a glance over his form. "You HAVE been eating, right? I can make something for you to have over the weekend. You like spicy things, right? Oh, I know! my mother used to make an amazing chicken curry and I'm sure I still have the recipe lying around somewhere. I'll just have to make a quick run for more groceries for the-"

"Nonononono, Mrs. Tana I'm fine! I even take breaks every couple of hours, promise." She already gave him discounts on the whole store. He didn't need the owner adding more to her plate over him.

Mrs. Tana gave one last look of suspicion before she seemed to remember what she'd been doing before Prompto had arrived. The clipboard had seen better days, its faded wooded back filled with scratches and evidence of permanent marker. Pages of spreadsheets were thrust towards him as she handed the clipboard over, pen tucked away inside the metal clip. 

"Uhh, need some help with the inventory again, huh?" With a knowing smile, the blond glanced down and looked over how much had been filled out already. Rows of item codes and numbers stared back at him. It seemed like she hadn't even made it through the kids' section, the front-most part of the store. 

"Yes, one of my girls called in sick this morning and I've got more than this to take care of today. Some of my new easels came in completely broken so I've got a few calls to make. If you'd be a dear, can you lend a hand?" She placed a hand on his shoulder that radiated heat, probably from flitting around trying to get things done on time. 

Prompto looked up from the clipboard, feeling the slight tremor in her hand. "But of course, madam. Your knight shall banish these numbers posthaste!" he joked with a flourished bow.

Mrs. Tana gave an exasperated sigh, the quirked corners of her lips betraying her amusement. "Don't you try and charm me young man. Get to work before I banish you from the kingdom for all eternity," she teased back, a hand resting on her hip.

"As you command my liege." With another bow and an extra smile, Prompto set out to conquer the ferocious inventory.

 

 

Numbers, digits, and numerals. 

They glared back at Prompto from the white background spreadsheet. He was relatively okay with math, but that didn't mean he got along well with numbers. They had begun to run together after the first twenty minutes or so, and he found himself restarting a count more often than finishing. He would be greeted by Mrs. Tana every once in a while, on her way to another part of the store, switching between cleaning up and helping any of the customers that were beginning to trickle in. The weekend crowds were never too intense, but it could be a lot to handle if the shop was as short staffed as Mrs. Tana suggested. He'd only seen three different employees in the past couple of months, and they worked like a well-oiled machine, a smooth rotation of cleaning, manning the register and helping customers find things. 

A constant ticking echoing throughout the store brought his attention back to the shop, and pulled it towards the large wooden clock hanging above the front door. One o’clock chimed a warning that he had only an hour before he’d have to be down the street for work. He hated the idea of leaving Mrs. Tana with the rest of his work, but he hadn’t even gotten to half the store in the past hour. The paints were closer to the door than his usual hauntings of the charcoal and pencils, lit naturally from the sunlight pouring in through the giant windows. Mrs. Tana didn’t even bother to turn on the lights in the front half of the store, swearing that the florescent lights made the paint colors look off. 

Between the gaps in the aisles. He could see Mrs. Tana on the register checking out a little girl and what looked to be her mother. As he began to make his way to return the clipboard, a sharp thumping started to run from one temple to the other, throwing his balance off enough to stumble into a shelf of paintbrushes. His vision swam as the pounding intensified, mixing the paints on the adjoining aisle into one single colored mess. Over the roar of the heartbeat in his ears, one other sound managed to make it through to him. The bell on the front door, chiming much more frantically than it should. 

Trying to make some signal to the knew customer for help, he was granted a brief clarity that showed him the strange desperation and confusion on the black-haired man’s face. And the shock of pure white fur and two pairs of ice-blue eyes at his feet. Before the darkness overcame him, he swore he saw the man smile. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a note, Prompto didn't start college straight out of high school. He graduated at 18 and took a break to save up to get his apartment and started at 20. So he's (almost) 22 in his sophomore year instead of what's normally 20. 
> 
> So this puts the guys' ages as:  
> Prompto and Noctis - 22  
> Ignis - 24  
> Gladio - 25
> 
> I've also changed Ignis and Gladio's ranks as a creative decision, but it shouldn't affect any of what I've planned anyway.


End file.
